


Little Victories

by fearbunny



Series: Fearbunny's Dragon Age: Inquisition [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gossip, Post-Game, Post-Trespasser, domestic life, petty revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:03:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearbunny/pseuds/fearbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ellana just wants to eat potatoes in peace, but elven ears hear more than they intend to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Victories

“Aw, horseshit!” Ellana swore as she watched the fresh wound weep red, down the stub of her left arm, and onto the bare cutting board. The potato that had been on it was now sitting on the floor, unscathed, having escaped her clumsy pinning-by-arm-nub. To think she used to be so good with knives. She washed the wound and patched it up as best she could with one hand. The bandages were loose in places but it kept the blood in, and that was her main concern.

She hated her weekends these days. She gave the housemaid the days off and lately Cullen had been working every day for the past few weeks building the reform centre for ex-templars in Hightown. He'd left early that morning, leaving her with a chaste kiss on the nose and taking their dog, Fel, with him. He'd wanted to get stuck in before the sun got too hot in the midday. Ellana had taken to not even rising 'til midday. The life of a Comtesse of Kirkwall was a cushy one.

Her dreams of roast potato chunks dashed, she decided she would venture out in search of something pre-prepared. Donning a comfortable outfit of leather pants, boots and a loose-fitting tunic she set off onto the city streets.

The estate Varric had given her was particularly nice, for Kirkwall. It had been a little stone-on stone for Ellana's taste, but she'd brightened it up significantly with planters filled with colourful flowers and essential herbs, potted plants, climbing plants. There were a couple of new seedlings out the front, and she’d had the courtyard out the back torn up and replaced it with a vegetable patch and some fruit trees. Gardening was, for the most part, something she found she could still do with one and a half arms. It took a hell of a lot longer, but she got it done. Fel helped with digging the big holes. The dog was probably more efficient at it than she would have been even with two arms.

Being surrounded by all the vegetation made her feel like she was closer to home, wherever that may be now. She'd not heard from her clan since shortly after the disbanding of the Inquisition. Her father had written and inquired as to when she'd be returning home. She had not written back, unsure how to explain that she no longer belonged with the Dalish. The whole ordeal with Solas being Fen'harel had taken its toll on her. And finding out the Creators had been no more than people, with much too much power, who would enslave their own kin. It had caused her a profound crisis of faith. Every time she looked in the mirror and saw her pale red vallaslin snaking over her cheekbones, marking her for Mythal, she felt sick. She wore the sign of a murder victim plastered across her face, a protector who'd had no-one to protect her.

Not to mention her father would probably snap a bowstring or two in rage on finding out that she'd married a 'shem'. Verryn had been particularly distrusting of humans, because of how he'd met Ellana's mother. He’d stumbled across her white hunting, a broken and bloodied city-elf left for dead on the roadside; and carried her back to their healer to care for a wounds. He'd told Ellana over the years, so many times, how it took so long for him to nurse her back to health. Her recovery period had seemed to increase with every retelling. In moodier teenage years, feeling hurt by her mother's abandonment, she'd cursed and wished her mother had never recovered, so she'd never had to be born and suffer life.

She was glad to feel a lot less nihilistic these days. She'd even chance to say she was happy, for the most part. And what she wasn't happy about she could always poke fun at with self-deprecating sarcasm and humour.

The sun was bright today. Ellana hoped Cullen had remembered to apply his sun-salve. He burned so easily, turning a raw shade of pink like the skin of a nug. Ordinarily, she was as pale as he, but in the sunny seasons her skin tanned lightly rather than burning like he did. Elves were more intrinsically equipped for life outdoors.

The market was bustling, as it always did on a Saturday. There was a special growers and crafter's market for hobbyists, which took place every weekend. Across the marketplace was the construction site for the reform centre, still mostly bare dirt and piles of stone at this stage. Ellana slowly made her way over to it, stopping at stalls here and there in search of something to eat. She found a stall selling potatoes prepared in all kinds of wonderful ways- stuffed potatoes, roast potatoes, potatoes mashed with rich meat gravy, potatoes cut into thin strips with cheese melted on top. She opted for the cheese option, having gained an affinity for the stuff in Ferelden. King Alistair had even appointed a national holiday of cheese appreciation, and the Rutherford family had introduced her to it with gusto.

Ellana took her cheesy potatoes, nestled in a parchment cone, and set herself up on a stone wall and watched the construction site. Cullen, who to her pleasure had shed his tunic and was walking around shirtless, was pulling a rope attached to a pulley system, manoeuvring a large wooden beam into place, with the help of a small group of builders and other ex-templars. And Fel, who was running in circles around the moving beam, every moment of his life an excitement. Cullen looked so serious, barking orders, and pointing all about the place. She could tell he was happy, in spite of his all-business demeanour. He did so love to give orders.

“What do you suppose they're building there?” a voice came from nearby. At a stall with knitted and woven handcrafts, a well-dressed woman, not much older than Ellana perused the wares, and chatted with the proprietor, another woman with greying hair.

“Oh that? It's to be a reform centre for former templars.” The stall owner sneered.

“Ugh, in they're building that in Hightown? Ever since that damn dwarf has been running the city, this place has really been going down the privy.” The customer echoed the older woman's statement. “I heard he made a knife-ear a Comtesse!” she added in a low whisper.

Ellana could still hear, no matter how low the woman hissed. She scowled into her chip cup, not wanting to get into a confrontation she tried to block them out by humming a soft tune. It didn't work.

“Oh, I know. I'm worried about the kind of message it sends. Having these shivering addicts hanging about in the street is something I'd expect in Darktown, even Lowtown, but not here.”

“Someone should really start a petition.”

“If they do, they should wait 'til after construction's finished. I have to say I've been enjoying the show.” The stall owner made a pointed remark, gesturing to Cullen, “The handsome blond one has a penchant for taking off his shirt when it gets too hot.”

The customer turned and appraised the view, smiling the seedy smile of a woman who read too many smutty novels written by the likes of the 'damn dwarf' she'd been complaining of earlier. It was at this moment that Cullen noticed his wife, sitting on the stone wall and aggressively chewing potatoes to contain her rage. He gave Ellana a wave, a smile spreading across his face. Too upset and hand too full of cup, Ellana merely nodded in his direction.

“Oh! He waved at you!” The stall owner exclaimed to her customer, clapping her hands to her mouth.

“Oh my! No...do you think he meant to wave at me?”

The stall owner lowered her voice to a hiss, “What, who else would he be waving at? That one-armed elf? Gorging herself on stolen food, no doubt?”

Ellana breathed in a deep breath, nostrils flaring wide. She tipped the last of her potatoes into her mouth so that she could stop herself from causing a scene. Did these woman not realise the big ears meant better hearing?

“Do you think I should go talk to him? Oh, it's not too soon, is it? Markus hasn't even been dead a year!” the customer fluttered, turning her head back and forth like a sparrow checking it's surroundings

“Oh my word, he's coming over here! Yes! Yes! Absolutely yes! Look at him. Those shoulders! If I were twenty years younger...” The older woman shook her head vigorously, fanning herself with her hands.

“Ok. Ok, I'm ready. How do I look? Do I look calm?” the younger woman asked feverishly, face flushed red.

“You look fantastic dear, you always do! He's going to absolutely fall for you!”

Ellana rolled her eyes. She jumped down from the wall gracefully, chucking the empty paper cup over her shoulder. She grinned, as her husband approached her and her well-calculated throw bounced from the head of the desperate young woman and landed on the table, covering the stall-owners wares with a spray of liquid cheese and grease.

“Miss me?” Ellana asked him.

“Always, when we are apart, my dear.”

Standing on her tip-toes to meet him, she placed a hand on his stubbled jaw and placed a long, deep kiss on his lips. He was sweaty, his skin was hot and he tasted of salt and earth. As they parted, she nestled her head under his chin and turned to the women who'd insulted her and her friends so callously within her earshot.

With a half-smile and a devious furrow to her brow, she drew her only hand to her face, all fingers but for one clenched in a fist.

The little victories could be so sweet.


End file.
